


Honeystorm

by HimereCalliope



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Clothed Erections, Coming In Pants, Cunnilingus, Desperate Arousal, F/M, First Time, Marriage of Convenience, Masturbation, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Alien Culture, PWP, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimereCalliope/pseuds/HimereCalliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It looks like a small diplomatic snafu at first.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeystorm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/gifts).



His blood is on fire. It’s flaming, boiling, steam tearing through his flesh, vaporizing any thought except how much he needs, needs, needs. Needs something to cool his burning skin, to heat up his insides more, to touch him to end this feeling, to plunge, thrust, grab, bite, _fuck_. He’s trying, reaching out, trying to hold, pull, seize, force, possess. But the velvet shapes slips away in darkness and he screams with frustration, panic, need.

With a start, the darkness lightens. Dark grey, instead of blackness, and the indistinct shapes of the mossy cave. The dream recedes, but the fever stays. He’s as hard as he’s ever been, drawn tight and strung out and aching, his skin in flames all over and desperate for more, for touch, friction, relief. But he can’t. He locks his muscles into place, gasping and shaking and as desperate not to move as his body is to do just that. He can’t move. Any move would be immediately out of his control, pure uncontrolled instinct to take what he needs, he _needs, oh God he needs_ , without permission, and he can’t. He needs and he can’t and he needs and he needs but he can’t and any movement would tip the balance and he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, can’t, can’t, _can’t_ last much longer.

* * *

It looks like a small diplomatic snafu at first. It wouldn’t be the first time. Starfleet procedure for first contact involves teams of specialists in intercultural communication sussing out all potential problem areas before any real diplomacy can even begin. It’s a highly complex and volatile process, and it’s rumored that only Betazoids can ever be truly and repeatedly successful at it. Voyager’s procedure for first contact relies on beaming down high ranking officers, smiling, and, as far as possible, going along with the local rituals.

Chakotay has so far, during his time as First Officer, been dunked in a river, sprayed with tree sap, painted, blindfolded, and had his head shaved. Which is why the treatment they get from the Eali doesn’t raise any immediate alarms. Introductions went well, after all, and trade agreements – dilithium for some of Voyager’s hydroponics technology – are quickly developing. So when an ion storm – a regular occurrence around Ea, the Eali assure them – interrupts communication with Voyager, there is no reason not to take the Eali ambassador up on his offer of quarters for the night.

No reason, except for what turn out to be three fateful words: “We’re not married.”

It’s not the first time they’ve had to clarify that, either, and that would make Chakotay think, if he hadn’t already done all his thinking on this particular subject some time ago. But it is, so far, the worst time.

They each get whisked off to opposite parts of the sprawling, burrow-like ambassadorial complex, because apparently, unmarried men and women here sleep very, very separately. Which also wouldn’t be a problem, except that an increasing number of locked doors and shocked expressions is making it increasingly clear that they don’t just sleep separately. No, they _live_ separately. There are, it turns out, strict rules, and thick walls, and finally armed guards to keep unmarried men and women from so much as speaking to each other. That is the way Alem wants it, he is told. Three unsuccessful attempts later, he learns that Alem is the Eali’s main deity, goddess of their planet, and patron of all living things.

Which is why he ends up behind a locked door, confined to novice’s chambers, and, thanks to the ion storm, cut off from any communication with his captain or his ship.

Another four escape attempts later, Chakotay knows that the lock on the door can’t be picked with anything he has in this room, and that the guard cannot be reasoned with, bribed, or overpowered. Which leaves him to wait for Voyager to rescue him once the storm clears up. Or, should it come, for a change in circumstances he can use to his advantage.

It does come, and it comes in the form of a dozen additional guards in dress uniforms who unlock his door and line the hallway in an arrow-like formation. He wonders briefly if perhaps the penalty for attempting sacrilege is harsher than expected, until the guard closest to him speaks.

“Please follow. We shall guide you to your betrothed.”

It takes him a second, but then he knows what’s going on, knows he’s playing a passive role in a plan he can only guess at, and knows he trusts it completely.

* * *

The honeymoon suite looks more like a cave at first glance. It has no corners, only curves; the walls, ceiling, and floor transition smoothly into each other, and swellings in the ground look like miniature hills. Twilight is filtering in through hidden skylights as though through the leaves on a tree, making the brown-grey-green colors of the room almost indistinguishable from each other. The ground is covered in something soft and springy, almost like moss, except that it’s dry. On the far side, a stream of water trickles over a handful of rocks into an inlet pool deep and large enough for several people.

Rising out of the ground on the right, in a soft transition of color, texture, and angles, is what is clearly the centerpiece of the room: an enormous bed. An island of colorful cloth in its middle, red and orange and yellow, draws his eye. He looks away quickly when he realizes it’s made up of a few very skimpy looking pajama pieces, obviously meant for them. Then he gives himself a mental shake and looks back, because as awkward as it is, they are going to have to change out of their damp and oil-covered clothes.

There are no side-rooms to the cave, no separate bathroom, changing room, or even closet. No privacy at all, which, he supposes, is probably the point. He recognizes a soft elevation with a lightly glowing indent at the top as the waste reverter – the Eali version of a toilet – and on the other side of the pool, the wide, flat stone bottom of a cleanser.

“You want the shower first?” he offers.

Kathryn shakes her head.

He hesitates a second, there’s nothing to be gained by fretting. He heads over to the cleanser. Unlike a sonic shower, it’s not powerful enough to handle clothing, so he strips before stepping in, dropping his uniform in an oily pile on the ground. The cleansing field activates automatically, and he is surprised to find that he can’t just see the glow, but he can actually feel it working.

It warms his skin like sunlight on a summer day, and he closes his eyes for a moment, blocking out the mossy wall in front of him to simply enjoy the way it relaxes his muscles. Gently, the warmth begins to pulsate, and a tingling sensation spreads from his centre outward, like rivulets of water running down his torso, or like fine sand. It wakes his heat-lazy skin, sensitizes it like a cool breeze on a hot day, and feels oh so very good. He lets the sensation wash over him, envelop him, lift him away, until it slowly tapers off, and he’s left standing there, shivering and very hard, in the suddenly cool room.

It’s more than a little embarrassing, and he looks around quickly for his uniform. It’s not where he left it. In it’s place is one of the pajama pieces from the bed.

“Kathryn?” he asks hesitantly, without turning around.

“I found a laundry chute,” she calls, apparently on the other side of the room. “The sooner we get our uniforms clean, the better.”

He sighs, and picks up the small heap of orange material. It turns out to be a pair of pants, made of a material lighter and smoother than silk, and so translucent it’s almost transparent. They hide absolutely nothing, but they do at least offer a symbolic appearance of decency, so he slips them on before heading back to the other side of the room. Kathryn’s sitting on the bed, wrapped in a short, red negligee of the same material, which does nothing to help his situation. She gets up to head for the cleanser, and raises an amused eyebrow at his appearance.

“It, uh, tingles,” he says, smiling a little sheepishly, and she laughs.

“I’ll consider myself warned.”

He busies himself with the bed while she showers, figuring out how to separate one layer of the moss-like material from the rest as a type of blanket. He crawls underneath it, on the far left side of the bed, and tries deliberately to think of nothing.

The series of soft, sensual “ _oh_ ”s drifting across the room really doesn’t help.

* * *

He wakes up to the scent, heady and wild, of her arousal, and he’s hard again before he’s even fully awake. He wants, he needs, and oh, finally so does she. Except, no. That’s not right, and he blinks himself more awake.

Kathryn is writhing in the sheets on her side of the bed, panting shallowly, and digging her fingers into the mattress in a futile bid for control that he can still feel in his own joints. Clearly whatever hit him before is now hitting her. And that’s something he should probably be thinking about, should really be thinking about, should— but Kathryn is moaning quietly, and she is always his first priority.

He draws a smile up from deep down, gently teasing, like he would and should be. “I think this is the point where I remind you to take your own advice.”

“I tried,” she grits out, and just the fact that there’s not a touch of humor there wakes his brain up an extra ten percent. “It’s not working. It’s not enough. I can’t—” She breaks off into a groan, and he is tense all over with indecision.

It would be crossing more than a line, that massive, demarcated area of empty space between them, their own personal neutral zone. But he feels like he’s inside already, got lost in familiar waters months and years ago, and has resigned himself to beaching hard on the rocks.

And she needs something.

“I could help,” he offers quietly, and it’s the least unselfish thing he’s ever done, because he wants, oh how he _wants_ , “if you want me to.”

The fact that she doesn’t answer tells him she doesn’t, they shouldn’t, he can’t, but then she rasps out “Please” and he can. He still shouldn’t, but he can, and at whatever point physical necessities begin to trump emotional ones, that’s where he is. The inevitable fallout almost feels worth it.

He shifts next to her, and takes a deep breath. She’s still wrapped in the sheer, silky material, and it draws his eyes to her breasts, rising and falling as she pants, round and soft, except where her nipples are hard, and just barely covered enough for him to long to tear through the cloth. He shifts down ward before his resolve can give way. Before he can lose it, make this about him, and taking what he wants, everything he wants, instead of just—

He moves down quickly, lies on his stomach, his head at the level of her hips. His erection, throbbing angrily with neglect, is trapped against the mattress, and the pressure takes some of the edge off and builds up more at the same time. He tries to ignore it as best he can, and at least manages not to buck.

Above him, Kathryn whimpers, and he remembers with some guilt that this is worse, much worse for her. He finds the blanket covering her and pushes it up, not down, in the vague hope of somehow preserving some of her privacy, her dignity that way. She gasps at the touch of cooler air, and pulls up her legs, knees bent and spread wide, like her body is unashamedly begging now. The soft silk rode up long ago, and he almost wishes there were another barrier to cross, a softer way to initiate, but there isn’t.

She’s wet, glisteningly so even in the dim light, and her scent is overwhelming, musky and spicy and _her_ and it makes his mouth water. So he doesn’t wait. He spreads her labia with two fingers as gently as he can, but even that makes her buck so hard that he has to clamp both arms around her things to keep her still. Then he leans down and lets his tongue enter her moist heat.

Kathryn makes a sound close to mewling, and writhes, muscles clenching and shifting with all her considerable strength, and he knows his fingers must be leaving bruises. But he also knows a _don’t stop_ when he hears it. He moves quickly, trying to be perfunctory, though goodness knows he has no idea how to be perfunctory about _this_. No idea how to be less selfish, how to enjoy it less. Because her taste ist intoxicating, almost familiar in how much it’s simply _her_ , and desperate as she is she is incredibly responsive.

He varies long, broad licks with shorter, faster ones, savoring the taste, the feel, the passion, and guiltily aware that he’s drawing this out. But it’s too good, too addictive, too much exactly what he wants-needs- _craves_ for him to stop. He lets his tongue move up, circle gently around her clitoris without actually touching, moves back down, repeats. Repeats until it’s taking all his strength to hold her hips in place, until he’s only even vaguely conscious of his own desperate rutting against the mattress, until her gasps sounds too much like sobs to ignore. And then he finally gives in, laps at her over-sensitized clit at last, and she lasts not even three seconds before she’s shouting and convulsing around him, and with a final snap of his hips his vision goes red and black, and he comes, too.

He just manages to pull off his sticky pants and crawl back up the bed before he falls asleep.

* * *

Breathing deeply isn’t helping. Neither is holding still, trying to distract himself, or even imagining shuttle crashes. There is no talking down his ridiculous arousal. He’s too aware of it all, the prickle of the cool air against his skin and on his nipples, the smooth silk caressing his legs, his groin, the throbbing, needy ache of his erection, and Kathryn, right there next to him, wearing nothing but the same barely-there, see-through silk. She’s lying on her stomach, blanket pulled up just over the small of her back, her head buried in her arms. He tries not to be aware of the way her skin shines through the thin red fabric. He takes another deep, useless breath.

“Chakotay, I’m hardly a maiden whose innocence needs protecting,” She mutters into the mattress, and it takes him a few seconds just to parse her words. “You can stop suffering so heroically in silence. You’re not going to offend my sensibilities.”

Oh, thank goodness. No, thank _Kathryn_. It’s not what he’s used to, and not something he would be comfortable with – he’s never gotten off on exhibitionism – but that’s not more than a passing thought now. He can’t suppress a hiss as he slips his hand into his pajama bottoms and grasps his cock. It feels so good, so very good, to finally get some pressure, some friction.

He closes his eyes and lets the familiar motions take over. A firm grasp, a steady stroke, relieving need while building pressure, steadily building towards orgasm. It’s familiar, almost soothing, and he’s going to do this quickly and quietly, and not imagine how Kathryn might be listening, or watching.

Except, it’s nothing of the sort. There is no relief, no sign that his body recognizes it’s finally getting what it needs, no sense of controlled build. Just need, more need, pure need.

His fingers clench around his cock, much tighter than he usually likes, and it’s almost painful, but still not tight enough. His hand speeds up, and he just wants to get through this now, get it over with, get to come so he can get some sleep, and think again, think, about something else, anything else. But he’s not getting anywhere, not moving forwards, upwards, towards, nothing at all. Nothing but more burning, agonizing need, because he needs this, needs it badly, so very badly. He’s achingly, painfully hard, and bucking into his hand, his muscles straining, panting, moaning. He _needs_ this, needs to come, but it’s not working, not helping, not getting any closer, and he can’t, not like this, can’t—

There’s a touch on his shoulder, hot electric current to conductive metal, and he barely hears the worried “Chakotay?” because that is, that, that’s what it takes. Searing white sparks shoot through his body, and he bucks and thrusts and jerks and then the world dissolves in a blinding bright plasma explosion.

When he comes to, it feels like some time later. Kathryn is asleep, breathing deeply, and Chakotay feels clammy with cold sweat. He gropes for the stone hand-held cleanser on the bedside hill, and runs it over himself until he’s at least clean and dry. It doesn’t tingle, orget warm, and he’s thankful for it.

* * *

“I promise to protect and keep, to guide and provide, and to seek out in times of trial,” Kathryn recites, wearing her most earnest most diplomatic face. Considering that they’re standing barefoot in a sacred pool of water, tied together along the arms with sacred vines, and surrounded by several dozen hopefully sacred armed guards, it’s a truly impressively diplomatic face, and Chakotay tries to match it in his turn.

“I promise to heed and support, to counsel and concern, and to aid in times of trial.”

A guards steps forward and pours a golden-yellow oil over their heads and arms that makes his skin prickle.

“You proceed with Alem’s blessings,” the priestess intones. “May your lands be fertile and your strength multiplied, your droughts short and your harvest bountiful, and may your life together be greater than apart.”

* * *

His whole world is on fire, and he knows he has to be, is drugged, they’re both drugged, but he’s too far gone for that clarity to matter.

He rolls over, on top of her, and kisses her forcefully until she’s wide awake and gasping into his mouth. ”Something in the water,” she manages, when they break for air.

“Or the oil,” he gasps, before returning his mouth to hers.

”We’re not—” _In our right minds._ It’s as much a cautioning as it is a liberation.

“We’re not,” he agrees.

He’s hard and she’s wet, and nothing else matters. He pushes into her, hard, fast, desperate, and shudders at the feel of her tightness, her heat, her shuddering around him. There’s no thought involved, no finesse or caring, just her on her back and him on top of her, just a rhythm that lives deep in his bones and thrums in his ears. It’s a satisfaction of a need he’s held, they’ve both held, for as long as he can remember.

He thrusts rough and quick and then, when she grabs with all her strength, harder and harder still. She’s hot wherever they’re touching, and he’s not sure he can tell the difference anymore between the heat of her body and the heat of his blood. Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him in tighter, closer. Making it harder to thrust, but also better, and her nails are digging grooves in his back. The pain burns just like pleasure, and he burns all over, from his straining arms to his aching cock, he is one single exposed nerve, and everything is happening to every part of him.

Sweat is rolling down his chest, dripping onto her, mixing his scent with hers, and he feels that like a singing in his mind. He bends down, licks at her neck, and the salty taste of her sweat is like a blessing. He’s moving on instinct now, his body only caring about its own pleasure, his mind only caring about appeasing his burning body. Wild moans echo in his ears, and he can’t tell if they’re hers or his own.

Then nature really takes over, and all he can care about, all he can feel, his the hot, tight friction on his cock. It’s all that exists in the world. Perfect, it’s perfect, it’s everything he needs except he needs more, harder, more, now, and he’s so close he could scream, so close but not there yet, so hard and aching and crazy with needing just that little bit more, that last nudge towards—

And then she’s clenching around him, convulsing, and digging her nails in so deep that he’s sure she’s drawn blood, and everything whites out behind his eyelids.

It’s over before his mind has any chance to catch up. He pants, still caught in the aftershocks, and lets himself fall sideways into oblivion.

* * *

He walks her to her quarters, which they both pretend are on the way to his. They pause by the open door.

“I’ll set up a staff briefing on our trade agreement for tomorrow morning,” he says, reaching for normalcy.

“Not tonight?”

“There’s no rush. We can’t do anything until the next ion storm passes. And I think B’Elanna will be happier to hear about the spare dilithium if we don’t drag her away from Tom’s movie night to tell her. Besides, I think we” he looks meaningfully at her, “could all use some extra sleep.”

She raises an eyebrow. “ _To heed and support, to counsel and concern_ , Chakotay?”

“Always,” he says.

“Quite a declaration.”

He shrugs, smiling. “Well, we _are_ married.”

“Ah, but only as long as we’re still in Eali space. So for about ten more minutes.”

He takes a breath. “Ten minutes, huh?” And he hopes he’s reading this right.

“Nine and a half.”

“Well, then, as long as we are still married… may I kiss the bride?”

She looks up at him, and then steps back to let the door close behind him. “I suppose just this once can’t hurt.”

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of a groan reverberating through his body. Or, parts of his body. The parts of his body that are wrapped around another body. A warm, soft, pleasant body.

Oh.

Kathryn groans again, and he opens his eyes to see her burying her face in a pillow. He feels like doing the same. His head is throbbing, his muscles aching, and his bones feel leaden.

“Good morning,” he says instead, trying for optimism.

He gets another groan in reply.

“Okay, bad morning,” he concedes, and tries to peel himself off her as carefully as possible. They’re tangled and sticky in uncomfortable places. He finally rolls off to the side, and lies on his back for a moment, trying to collect himself. His memories of the night are entirely too sharp for how hung over he feels. The worst of both worlds.

“I don’t suppose there’s any coffee?” Kathryn mumbles from under her pillow, and it almost makes him laugh.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he says, which earns him another disappointed groan.

There’s nothing to do at this point but face the daylight, so he grabs the handheld cleanser and runs it over himself, before offering it to her. She takes it and uses it under the covers she’s pulled up. He sighs resignedly. This isn’t going to be fun. And he can’t decide if the worst part is that he knew that in advance.

“So,” he says, leaving the rest open. It’s her call. Has always been her call.

“That didn’t exactly go according to procedure.” He’s relieved to hear the familiar wry humor in her tone.

“No,” he agrees, mildly, and watches her shift gears.

“We have to update the standard protocols for away missions. Start scanning more than just food and drink for potential ill effects. Dammit, we should have been doing that all along. Why didn’t we think of that before?”

“It hadn’t come up,” he says simply.

She gives him a sharp look, and he shrugs. “Spilled milk, and all that. We’ll be more careful in the future. Especially around anything that looks like a fertility ritual.”

She sits up suddenly, her eyes almost panicked. “You don’t think—?” Her hand strays to her abdomen in a gesture more defensive than protective.

He hadn’t thought of that, but shakes his head quickly, suddenly intensely grateful for the Doctor’s constant prodding. “Not from me. I get my shots regularly.”

“Oh thank God.” She collapses back onto the bed. “That would have been—” She sighs in relief, then looks up at him. “Not that—”

“I know what you mean.” He reassures her. “We’re hardly in a good position out here.” They might never be in a good position, might never make it back to the Alpha Quadrant, or not before it’s too late, but they have to have priorities. These are hers.

“The drug, whatever it is, do you think it’s out of our systems?”

He runs a mental check on himself, and his reactions. “I think so.”

“Good.”

But she’s still clutching the blanket to her chests. He feels like it’s too late for him.

He sighs, tiredly. “I suppose we still have a job we should be getting back to.” And he sits up, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Chakotay.” She catches his wrist with one hand, pushing herself half up with the other. He stills, and turns towards her. “For what it’s worth, I’ve had worse nights.” And when she smiles, he knows they’re going to be okay.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”


End file.
